Читать книгу The Royal House Of Karedes Collection Books 1-12 - Кейт Хьюит, Шантель Шоу - Страница 19

FOR a long moment, the world stood still.

Alex’s powerful body was sprawled over Maria’s, his face buried in her throat, their hearts still racing, skin damp with the commingled sweat of their passion. The night breeze, drifting across them from the still-open door, was chill. But when Alex began to ease away, Maria tightened her arms around him.

“Don’t go,” she murmured, and felt his lips curve in a smile.

“I’m not going very far.”

He reached for the throw at the foot of the bed, wrapped it around them, rolled to his side and gathered her close in his arms.

“Are you all right?”

It was her turn to smile. “Yes.”

“You sure?””

“Very sure. I’m fine. I’m perfect. I’m—”

“Yes,” he said, laughing softly as he kissed her, “you are.” Tenderly, he brushed back the tangled curls on her forehead. “Forgive me, agapi mou.”

“For what?”

“For not making love to you this way the first time.”

She shook her head, lay her hand against his cheek. “That first time was wonderful.”

A very male smile lit his face. “Thank you. But you were a virgin. I should have gone slower.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should have.” He turned his face into her hand and kissed the palm. “There was such a sweetness to you, glyka mou. Such an innocence. The way you touched me. Responded to me.” His hand slipped down her body, cupping her breast, then the curve of her hip. “I’ve relived those moments a hundred times,” he said huskily. “The feel of you. Your little cries. The way you blushed when I undressed you.” His mouth twisted. “The way I ruined it all with my terrible accusations.”

Maria put a finger over his lips. “Didn’t some wise man once say that the past is best left in the past?”

Alex drew her fingertip into the heat of his mouth. “Do you forgive me?”

“Forgive you for what?” she said, with a little smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Alexandros.”

His eyes darkened. “I love how you say my name.”

“Alexandros,” she sighed, “Alexandros, Alexandros, Alexandros …”

Just that—the sound of her voice, the feel of her against him—and he felt himself turning hard. “Maria,” he said, “my Maria,” and then he was inside her again, deep inside her, and the night enfolded them in its magical embrace.

Just before sunrise, when the grass glittered with dew, they dressed and made their way to the house.

“Someone will see us,” Maria hissed as Alex drew her inside.

“Who could possibly see us?”

“Spoken like a true potentate,” she said, laughing up at him. “What about Athenia? The cook? The maids? The rest of the staff?”

Alex swung her into his arms and carried her to his room. “The souls of discretion, I promise.”

Well, of course. They would be. Maria’s smile dimmed just a little. No point in being foolish about this. Other women would have slept in Alex’s bed…

“No.”

She looked up. Alex was watching her and smiling.

“No, what?”

“No other women, sweetheart. Not here.” He could see that she was surprised. And pleased. Crazy as it seemed, so was he. He set her on her feet, gently pushed her back against the closed bedroom door and framed her face with his hands. “Just you. Which means,” he said solemnly, but with a glint of laughter in his eyes, “we’re going to have to celebrate the occasion. Initiate my bed properly.” He bent his head, brushed her lips with his. “Champagne. Candles. Rose petals. How does that sound?”

Could he feel her heart racing? Could he possibly know what was in that racing heart, the emotions that she had spent the past two months, the past two days trying her best to deny?

“It sounds wonderful.” She moved, just a little, enough so she was pressed against him. “But won’t it take an awfully long time to get all those things together?”

She saw the change sweep through him. The narrowed mouth. The tic of a muscle in his jaw. The hint of exciting male passion that seemed to make the beautiful structure of his face even more pronounced.

“Maria,” he said thickly, “Dear God, Maria …”

They didn’t make it to the bed. Not then. But they did the next time, and the next, where they made love until the Aristan sun blazed bright and hot in the perfect blue of the sky.

When he awoke, the space beside him was empty. He sat up, the covers falling to his waist.

“Maria?” Naked, he padded to the bathroom. The door was locked; he heard the sound of running water and then nothing. “Maria?” he said again, and knocked.

“I’m fine,” she called, but the weak sound of her voice was evidence of the lie. His heart turned over. She’d been sick before, sick again, and now… “Maria? Open the door. Please.”

There was a silence. Then he heard the lock turn. The door swung open and he saw his Maria, standing at the sink with a toothbrush in her hand, looking at him in the mirror. She smiled, but her face was pale and sweaty.

“Kardia mou,” Alex said urgently, stepping behind her and encircling her with his arms, “were you ill again?”

She nodded. “A little.”

“Maria, this has happened too often.”

“It’s just flu, Alexandros,” she said, forcing another smile. “New York’s loaded with it.”

“This is not flu. I had flu last winter. Andreas had it, too. With flu you’re sick and then you get better. But you—you’re not getting better.”

“I am. Much better.”

“I will take you to my doctor.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“He will examine you, glyka mou, and prescribe an antibiotic.”

“Antibiotics don’t work against viruses, and flu is a virus.”

“Such logic,” Alex said, trying to sound angry when what he felt was fear. She was so pale, her eyes so dark… “Come here,” he said, and turned her and drew her close. “I don’t want you to be sick, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

“I’m fine. Honestly.”

“Thee mou, you’re a stubborn woman! Very well. No doctor.” He swung her up in his arms. “At least, come back to bed and rest for a little while.”

He carried her to the bed and lay down with her in his arms. Kissed her tenderly. Stroked her back. And, inevitably, as he held her, as his body heated hers, as she burrowed against him, tenderness gave way to desire.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he whispered as he touched her. “Shall I stop?”

“Don’t stop,” she whispered back, “don’t ever stop.”

And he didn’t.

She was gone again, the next time he awoke.

A knot of apprehension formed in his belly but the bathroom door stood open and the room was empty.

He showered quickly, pulled on jeans, a white T-shirt and mocs, and went downstairs. He could hear the radio playing softly in the kitchen, turned to Athenia’s favorite music station. She smiled at him.

“Kalimera, sir.”

“Have you seen Miss Santos?”

“Oh, yes, perhaps an hour ago. She had coffee and—”

“She was all right?”

His housekeeper raised her eyebrows. “Fine, sir. She went to the guesthouse. To her workshop, I mean.”

The workshop. Alex ran a hand through his hair. “Of course,” he said sheepishly.

He found her there, perched on a high stool at a workbench. She was wearing jeans and a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She’d pulled her hair back in a ponytail; her feet were bare, one on the rung of the stool, one on the floor. She was bent over a sketchpad, intensity in every line of her body, and humming something he couldn’t identify other than to be sure the tune was almost painfully off-key.

He smiled, came up behind her quietly and slipped his arms around her.

“Kalimera, kardoula mou,” he said softly, and kissed the nape of her neck.

She sank back against him, her head against his shoulder, her hands covering his.

“Kalimera, Alexandros,” she said, and turned her face to his for a kiss.

“Mmm,” he said. She tasted wonderful, of coffee and of herself. “I missed you.”

She laughed. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Alex grinned and turned her in his arms. “Then, why were you in such a hurry to leave my bed?”

“Oh, I wasn’t in a hurry at all!” She blushed. “I mean—”

“Such a nice compliment, glyka mou. No need to explain it away.”

Maria linked her hands behind his neck. “I woke up and thought of a small change I want to make in your mother’s necklace. Nothing that will alter the design,” she said hastily, “just a modification in the way I planned to position the central stone. I promise, she’ll still like it.”

“She’ll love it, Maria. She thinks the design, your work, all the pictures you sent, are brilliant.”

Her face glowed with pleasure. “I’m so glad, Alexandros! This commission means the world to me.”

His gaze fell to her lips. “What else means the world to you?” he said huskily.

His hands slid under her shirt, cupped her breasts. Her breath caught; he watched her eyes turn from hazel to coffee-brown to ink-black.

“This,” she said, covering his hands with hers, “oh, this, this, this …”

He carried her to the bed. And as he came down beside her and kissed her, as they undressed each other, as she kissed his mouth, his throat, his chest, his belly and, at last, touched the tip of her tongue to the silk-over-steel power of his erection, she knew that what she’d just told him was only partly true.

This—touching him, kissing him, sharing his passion—did mean the world, but only because—because…

Because she loved him.

They had brunch, what Athenia referred to as a kolatsio, a snack, on a terrace overlooking the water. Thick, sweet Greek coffee. Olives. Feta cheese. Slices of warm, delicious bread and a tray of sweet cheese pastries that Alex said were called kalitsounia kritis.

They should have been called heavenly. The pastries were delicious and decadent and surely fattening but Maria didn’t care. She would not worry about anything this morning, not when life was so perfect. Even the day was perfect. Bright. Sunny. Warm. Unusual for the time of year, Alexandros said, and nothing like the weather they’d left behind in New York.

The truth was, nothing was like what she’d left in New York. Not this beautiful place. And not this wonderful, gorgeous, sexy, strong, funny, caring, intelligent man.

Now, Maria, Sister Sarah would have cautioned, that’s far too many adjectives.

Yes, Maria thought, but Sister had never met Alex.

He was seated across from her, talking about his house. He loved it; she could see that in his animated face. He was proud of it; she could hear that in his voice. How did you come to find such a perfect house? she’d asked, and he’d said, with a boyish grin, that he hadn’t found it, he’d built it.

And he had.

He’d worked along with the architect. With the builder. With the carpenters. He’d wanted a house that blended into its surroundings, that was spare and strong and unique.

“Like these cliffs,” he said.

Like you, she thought.

He told her that he’d lived in the palace until he’d gone away to boarding school and then university, and, though he loved its history and elegance, it had never felt like home. So, once he had his MBA, he’d bought a condo in Ellos and another in New York. Then, one weekend at the family compound overlooking the turbulent waters that separated Aristo and Calista, the Strait of Poseidon that Kitty had mentioned at dinner, it had suddenly hit him that what he wanted was a place of his own, overlooking the sea.

“I’d always loved driving along these cliffs so it seemed natural to call a friend, a realtor, inquire about property, then bring another friend, an architect, to see what he might suggest, and—” Alex laughed. “Look at you, kardoula mou. Your beautiful eyes are glazing over, thanks to my endless talk about myself.” He reached for her hands, lifted them to his lips and kissed them. “What I really want to talk about is you.”

She smiled. “My life isn’t anywhere near as interesting. And my eyes aren’t glazing over. I love learning things about you, Alexandros.”

She did. Oh, she did! She’d gone from hating him to loving him in what seemed a heartbeat but the truth was, she’d fallen in love with him that first terrible night.

“Still, I won’t say another word until you tell me about Maria Santos.”

“It’s a dull—Hey,” she said, laughing as Alex, in one fast move, rose from his chair, tugged her into his arms and settled into his chair again but this time with her in his lap.

“Okay, then,” he said, “I’ll tell you about her. Maria Santos was born twenty-five years ago. She was the most beautiful baby anyone had ever seen.”

Maria began to laugh. “Alex, that’s silly!”

“What?” he said, his eyes round with innocence. “You mean, you’re not twenty-five? What are you, then? Forty-five? Fifty-five? My God, you can’t be sixty—”

“I was not the most beautiful baby anyone had ever seen.”

“I’ll bet you were.”

“I was premature. Tiny. Skinny. Almost bald.”

“Beautiful,” Alex said, grinning, “just as I said.”

Maria rolled her eyes. “You’re crazy, Alexandros.”

“Crazy about you,” he said softly.

Could your heart really sing? She’d never heard such thrilling words. Her prince. Her lover. Her Alexandros was crazy about her.

“And I want to know all about you.”

That was wonderful, too. No one had ever wanted to know all about her, not once in her entire life. Smiling, she pressed her lips lightly to his.

“Okay,” she said softly, “here’s the entire, unexciting tale. I was born in the Bronx. I went to school in the Bronx. Public elementary and middle schools, and high school at Saint Mary’s. Then I went to college in—”

“The Bronx?” Alex said, and smiled.

“You guessed it. Lehman College. I studied—”

“Art.”

She sighed and lay her head against his shoulder. “I studied business. Mama’s idea, and I hated it. When everybody was studying Word and Excel, I sketched. Back then, before I discovered I loved working with metal and stones, I thought I wanted to design clothes. Anyway, I stuck it out for a year. Then I did what I had to do. I worked up a portfolio, arranged for an interview at FIT—the Fashion Institute of Technology. They accepted me, I made all the arrangements for a student loan.” She took a breath. “Then I broke the news to Mama. I told her how hard it was to get into FIT, I showed her my portfolio, and she said—”

“She said you had amazing talent, and that you’d be the next—who’s that New York designer? Donna Karan?”

Maria smiled, but her smile trembled. “She said I was a foolish girl with silly dreams.”

Alex’s arms tightened around her. “Ah, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I should have figured… I mean, the other night—”

“No, it’s okay. Maybe it’ll help you understand why—why she acted the way she did when you met her.” She took a deep breath. “See, my mother never finished high school. She went to work when she was sixteen, operating a sewing machine in the garment center. She was determined I would not do the same, and I couldn’t make her see that I wouldn’t end up that way.”

“And your father?”

“What about him?” she said, with a nonchalance as transparent as glass. “He owned the company where Mama worked. He was rich. He had a house on Long Island. He had a big car.” She cleared her throat. “He also had a wife and kids.”

“And your poor mother had no idea …” Alex said tightly.

“She had every idea.” Maria’s voice turned brittle. “He said he’d leave his wife and marry her—but, of course, he didn’t. And then, when she told him she was pregnant with me, he said she was lying. When he realized it was the truth, he gave her some money. For an abortion, he said. But she didn’t have an abortion, she had me instead, and he said that had been her decision, a bad decision, and then he fired her and she never saw him again.”

Alex had gone very still. Maria bit back a groan. Whatever had possessed her to tell him all that? She could have just told him the first part. School. College. FIT. But the rest… Why had she unloaded that sad, dumb story on him? She never talked about her life. Never. Joaquin knew, but they’d grown up together. Sela knew, but she was her best friend. No one else knew that she was a bastard and yes, that was the right word. It was an old-fashioned word in lots of places but in Maria’s world, the world her mother had created and in which she had raised her, the word still carried the smear of disgrace and dishonor.

Stupid, she told herself fiercely, how incredibly stupid, to tell such ugly things to a man who might as well have been born and raised on another planet.

“Well,” she said brightly, “so much for Tales from the Bronx.” She sat forward in Alex’s lap. “This has been a lovely break, Alex, but I have to get to work and—”

“Has he never tried to see you?”

“Who?” she said, even more brightly. “Oh, my father? No. Why would he? I didn’t need anything from him. I wouldn’t take anything, even if he—”

“How could a man turn his back on the woman who carried his child? On the child herself?”

“Well, I don’t know, but—”

Alex turned her face to his, cupped it with his hands and kissed her.

“You’re a strong, brave woman, kardia mou,” he said softly. “And I am honored to have become your lover.”

They fell into an easy pattern, like lovers who had been together a long time.

Not that what happened in bed lost its excitement.

It couldn’t, not when the sight of Alex coming toward her sent Maria’s pulse skittering, not when Maria’s smile was enough to fill Alex with such hunger that there were times he had to turn away to keep from sweeping her into his arms and making love to her wherever they happened to be.

He didn’t always turn away.

He made love to her in the workshop. In the garden. In the back of the limo with the privacy screen up, bringing her to climax with his hand high under her skirt, his mouth hot on hers. And he made love to her in bed. The demure bed in the workshop; the big, beautiful one in his room. They made love, and talked and laughed, and worked—she in her workshop, he in his study at the house. And they discovered all the things they needed to know about each other.

Maria no longer felt ill. The early morning nausea was a thing of the past. There were times she still felt exhausted but flu often left you feeling tired; everyone said so.

The only dark moments came when she remembered that her days with Alex were slipping away. The necklace was almost finished, the big birthday celebration loomed on the horizon. A week passed, then another, and the final week of her stay began.

When it ended, there would be nothing to keep her here.

Unless Alex asked her to stay. And she, who had spent her life avoiding relationships, who had never imagined repeating her mother’s foolish involvement with a man who was all wrong for her…

She knew she would stay, if Alexandros asked her.

But he didn’t. Why would he? How would he? He was a prince while she—she was a girl born into illegitimacy and raised in poverty. She could have a place in Alex’s bed but she would never have one in his life.

So she concentrated on completing the necklace until, finally, she had only to set one of the fabulous pink stones in its center, but she had to see the Crown of Aristo before she could do that.

The king kept making appointments for that to happen, then cancelling them.

On a rainy afternoon just days before the queen’s birthday party, Maria decided this couldn’t go on. Alex had a meeting in Ellos. After he was gone, she phoned the palace, left a polite message with Aegeus’s personal secretary. She had to see the crown today, she said, or the queen’s gift might not be as perfect as the king and she both wished.

She hung up the phone and was suddenly overwhelmed by nausea. It took her by surprise. Apparently, she wasn’t over the flu quite yet.

She barely made it to the bathroom, where she was horribly sick. When the spasms finally ended, she flushed the toilet, brushed her teeth, rinsed her mouth and started for the bedroom when a shocking wave of vertigo swept over her.

Maria stumbled and fell against the door jamb. The collision wasn’t particularly hard but the impact was painful and hurt her breasts. They’d grown so tender lately; even making love with Alex, there were times the touch of his mouth on her nipples came close to being painful…

Oh God!

Tender breasts. Nausea that seemed to have no basis. And, she thought, biting back a moan, and a period that had not come in… in, what? Two months? Three?

“No,” she whispered, “please, please, no …”

The phone rang. She tried to ignore it but the ringing went on and on…

“Hello?”

It was the king’s secretary. She would be permitted to see the crown an hour from now.

“I can’t,” Maria said, trembling as she counted back, again and again, to the last time she’d menstruated. “How about this afternoon? Or this evening?”

“One hour, Ms. Santos,” a commanding voice barked through the phone, “or not at all.”

It was the king himself, and she knew he meant it.

“I’ll be there, Your Majesty,” she whispered.

She—and the illegitimate royal baby she now realized lay cradled in her womb.